


Viper

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [29]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Attempted Murder, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Violence, Homosexuality, M/M, Murder, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Story: The Adventure of the Speckled Band, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 02:54:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12122973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: “You were so very remarkable and brave this morning,” I told him, whispering against his temple. “I forget how strong you are sometimes. But what a horrible, abominable man. He has you so very disturbed, my love,” I commented. “I know that bullies of that nature are particularly abhorrent to you.”In this piece from his collection of unpublished writing, Dr. John Watson shares a fascinating look at what happened “behind the scenes,” as it were, during one of the most well-known cases investigated by the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes. He clearly had the published version of his tale beside him as he penned this memory, and it is best read in the same manner.





	Viper

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's “The Adventure of the Speckled Band.” WARNING—spoilers for the story, but if you haven’t read it, GO READ IT. Facts be damned—it’s one of the best.

[This reminiscence is folded carefully to hold a letter written in an educated woman’s hand. The location and date at the top of this letter have been carefully cut off, as has the signature at the end.]  
  
Dear Dr. Watson,  
  
I am taking the liberty of writing to you not just as a past client of Mr. Holmes, but also as an admirer of your stories regarding his investigations. I cannot fully express my excitement—and trepidation—upon receiving the latest issue of The Strand magazine and immediately realising that it contained your rendition of our adventure together. I have read it several times with great interest and not a little shame—not for myself, but about my stepfather and his wicked, wicked ways. I also found myself shedding tears anew for my dear sister, but am more than anything heartened and reassured by the fact that the mystery of her death was discovered whilst also keeping our family’s terrible secrets private.  
  
I see now first-hand how you obscure details of name and date and location, and of other identifiable information, and for that I am grateful. My aunt and my husband know the truth, of course, and if anyone in the village reads your tale I am certain they will immediately discern the truth, but it would benefit not one of them to reveal my true identity. I live with my husband in a pleasant house within walking distance of my aunt’s home, and as you have in your story changed our names entirely (I do wonder how you came up with Helen Stoner, and Julia, and Stoke Moran—I find myself admiring the name Julia so much that the first girl we have will be named Julia—her second name will be my dear sister’s true Christian name), no one with whom we associate currently has any idea of the truth of it.   
  
I admit to the slightest bit of dread when reading your subterfuge about “the untimely death of the lady to whom the pledge was given,” and am relieved to tell you that I am quite whole and well while being equally grateful for you doing so in another way of “throwing off the scent.”  
  
The manor-house has been sold and what an immense weight was taken from my shoulders when that occurred.  
  
Now, I must admit to a bit of negligence on my part. It was not a deliberate oversight, and I pray that you will forgive me. I am sure you understand that at the time I was under a great deal of duress and not quite myself, and that immediately afterwards I wished nothing more than to suppress any thoughts of what had occurred that dreadful night.  
  
However, I realise now my error, and I fear that it may have repercussions for you, far more than for me. I suspect that you will be hearing this from others, as well, but I wished to reach out to you with my apologies.  
  
The fact is that it was not the snake which killed my sister. Not exactly.  
  
You will recall that the coroner found no fang marks on her—there was no apparent means by which the creature injected its deadly poison. I should have realised the significance of this at the time, but my grief overcame my sense.  
  
Then I admit that I was so swept up in the shock and horror of that evening, and of course observed along with you the deadly creature wrapped around my stepfather’s head—and it was entirely correct that it had indeed bitten him and injected its lethal fluid. We all saw the fang marks then, so there was no doubt.  
  
So, it did not occur to me before we parted that morning that there was something not quite right about the entirety of Mr. Holmes’ deductions. When it did, it was upon my first return to the house after the event, and I was involved with the arrangements for my stepfather and a great deal of legal paperwork, not to mention the undeniably odd task of ridding the household of those horrible creatures which roamed it so freely.  
  
It was, in fact, that very duty which led me to my realisation. I had reached out to the director of the London Zoo for advice and to possibly arrange for the transportation of the animals to that establishment, and in doing so, I had to, of course, make a list of the wildlife.  
  
I had, as you accurately included in your story, told you about the baboon and the cheetah, but of course I had at that time just mentioned a few of the animals—the most dangerous ones, for your own safety. There were several other species on the property. One of these animals was a bonnet macaque, a very small subspecies of monkey native to India. In fact, there were six of these creatures. For the most part, they preferred to live with the gypsies, who apparently spoiled them with attention and food. You might be familiar with these animals. Due to their size, relatively simple diets (they eat primarily fruits and vegetables), extreme dexterity, and somewhat agreeable temperaments if not provoked, they are often trained as performing animals, some even being dressed in small outfits. They have tiny, human-like hands and very long tails.  
  
I am sure that by now you have ascertained the point of this letter—and the nature of the error which Mr. Holmes—and you and I—made.  
  
I wish to make myself completely clear—I absolutely do not mean this information to be taken as an admonishment nor an insult. As a medical doctor and a writer, I am certain that you are well educated about a great variety of subjects as they pertain to Mankind. Mr. Holmes seems rather more haphazard and specialised in his knowledge, as you noted in your very first story. Neither of you has ever claimed to be more than nominally knowledgeable about domestic animals, and about exotic beasts not at all (beyond Mr. Holmes’ thorough acquaintance with the differing venoms produced by them).  
  
I, however, by necessity, have over the years become rather well-acquainted with the nature of these creatures, including the deadly snakes of India. It is I who feel nothing but chagrin when I realise that I did not immediately point out that the whistle could not have been used to train or retrieve the serpent, because snakes cannot hear. They might at times seem to do so, but they are in fact reacting to the vibrations associated with some sounds. A high whistle such as we heard is something which no snake would detect.  
  
Equally, I should have had the wits to explain that snakes are, for the most part, not trainable. Likewise, they would be highly unlikely to crawl through a metal ventilator and down a bell-rope—unlike a bedpost, the fabric would not support their method of movement. As for hoping that an untrainable reptile would do so, bite the occupant of the bed, then return when whistled for is simply untenable.  
  
However, one of these small monkeys could, with patience, most certainly be trained to crawl through the ventilator and down the bell-rope, and to return at the sound of a whistle. Their long tails, glimpsed in the sudden and blinding light as was struck by Mr. Holmes, could be mistaken for that of a snake. And what is most horrific is that the monkey, with its dexterity, could be trained to inject a hypodermic needle full of poison extracted from the deadly viper into the sleeping body of whomever had the misfortune of lying in that bed.  
  
The remains of such a hypodermic needle were found outdoors, several weeks later. I suspect that the creature, frightened by the attack from Mr. Holmes and then by the serpent, which my stepfather was apparently handling, fled my stepfather’s bedroom by the window, taking and then discarding the needle.  
  
Finally, snakes do not drink milk. Monkeys do not, either—I am still somewhat at a loss to explain the presence of that bowl in my stepfather’s bedroom, but now believe that it was the remains of a soothing dish of bread and milk—my stepfather, likely due to his own temperament, frequently suffered from stomach pain, and such a dish would be calming. As the housekeeper left her position the day after my stepfather’s funeral, I did not have the opportunity to inquire.  
  
Looking back, I am mortified to not have realised it earlier and even more chagrined to not have written to you immediately upon my discovery. I am sure you understand that at the very first I was overwhelmed by the entire situation, and then I will admit to allowing myself to become distracted by my marriage, establishing our new household, and the sale of the manor-house.  
  
I am certain that you can imagine my horror upon reading your story and instantly recalling with deep regret my neglect. I am afraid that you and The Strand will be receiving letters of complaint and admonishment, and I wonder if there is any way in which I could rectify this situation in some way. Perhaps I could write to the magazine editor anonymously so that an explanation might be included in their next issue?  
  
Please do write back to me and tell me what I can do to rectify my oversight. I do not wish for the reputation of Mr. Holmes or yourself to be soiled by this error.  
  
I do hope that I remain,  
  
Yours sincerely,  
  
[It is not known if the lady ever did write to the magazine, but no explanation was ever published and the doctor, writing the enclosed piece apparently in reaction to this letter, does not directly address her offer.]  
  
As I examine this letter from the real “Miss Helen Stoner” I find myself reflecting on various issues. Yes, I do change names, and dates, and locations, and sometimes other details, all with the intention of disguising the true identities of the unfortunates involved in the sometimes loathsome crimes investigated by my friend. In this case, I invented all the names, changed the location and the name of the manor-house and the inn, and set the entire story eight years back, when in truth it happened barely a year ago.  
  
What was true was that it was early April, and for some reason the drive in the trap from the station to the peculiar household we were to encounter seems especially vivid to me now.  
  
But let me go back to the beginning. The first fact that had necessarily been changed was that I did not awake with Sherlock standing by my bed. No, it was our ever-patient Mrs. Hudson, in her night-dress and wrap, who stood there at quarter-past seven. We had long prior established an understanding of our arrangement, and even if she was not privy to the most intimate of the details, she knew that most nights Sherlock and I shared a bed. That night it happened to be his (it usually was), and she had shaken me awake, as I was on the nearer side.  
  
“Very sorry to knock you up, Doctor Watson, but it’s the common lot this morning. I’ve been knocked up, I’ve knocked you up, and you get to knock _him_ up.” She indicated the inert lump next to me, just the dark, tousled curls peeking out from beneath the bedclothes.  
  
“What is it then—a fire?” I asked sleepily. I glanced over at the clock on his dressing table. It was only a quarter-past seven. In retrospect, my inquiry about the possibility of the building being in flames was a bit ridiculous—I believe that our intrepid landlady would have been a bit more vigorous in waking me if that had been the case—but we had had a late night and I had been hard-pressed to open my eyes. I should hardly have been expected to make much sense.  
  
“No; a client.” She proceeded to explain that a young lady was waiting for us in our sitting-room, and that she had something very pressing to communicate.  
  
I prodded my darling awake as she left us. He grumbled and fussed, but I bestowed several kisses on his beautiful face before sliding out from under the bedclothes and slipping through the connecting door to my own room to dress—and thank heavens for that door, for it would hardly have been seemly for us to emerge from the same bedroom, and in our nightclothes.  
  
Miss Helen Stoner was nearly exactly as I described her, down to the prematurely grey hair and haggard expression.  
  
Some readers will probably find my description of Miss Stoner’s bruised wrist—I can still see the distinct marks of the fingers and thumb in my mind’s eye—unseemly and unnecessarily shocking, but I stand by my decision to include such an intimate description of her condition.  
  
Sherlock was exactly as I described with her—solicitous and kind. For all that he describes himself as not trusting the fairer sex, he certainly makes exceptions. He responds so beautifully to intelligence, sensibility, and bravery. I am always so very proud of him when he openly admires anyone, but particularly a woman. I could tell that he was impressed with Miss Stoner’s attention to detail, even as she shared the awful story of her sister’s death.  
  
I was equally proud when he demonstrated his own bravery, as he did shortly after our slightly-less-troubled guest departed.  
  
Dr. Grimesby Roylott was as awful as his stepdaughter described. His sudden appearance at our door was even more alarming than I related in my retelling of the incident, for I did not dwell on two matters of great concern to us. The first was that he had actually forced his way into the house. During our intense discussion of the possibilities of the case, we had not noticed the bell, and the bellicose villain had quite literally pushed our dear Mrs. Hudson aside in his impatience to gain entry. She was so taken aback that it was a moment before she could recover herself, and by then he was already at the head of the stairs. I did not bring this up with Sherlock; he would have been so distressed. Further distressed.  
  
For the second and possibly more alarming factor was that he dashed our door open with no warning whatsoever—eliciting Sherlock’s ejaculation, complete with the pejorative word “devil,” which was so rare for him. We were fortunate that we were both, having had received our early-morning visitor, completely and properly dressed, and engaged in our conversation with Sherlock in his own chair and I in mine. What if we had not been so keen on the case? What if we had been engaged in a rather more personal conversation—or even more intimate activities?  
  
Everything happened so quickly—and Sherlock was so very calm in dealing with the odious man—that neither of these concerns immediately sprang to my mind.  
  
And when the insolent creature performed his meretricious act with our poker, my only concern was to get him out of our sitting-room and out of our house. I was astounded that Sherlock maintained his somewhat amused demeanour throughout the encounter.  
  
And then he straightened the poker, and for a short time I found myself quite distracted by his wiry frame.  
  
It was when I went down to ask Mrs. Hudson for breakfast that I learned of her decidedly unpleasant encounter with our intruder. I was relieved that she had not been injured and apologised profusely, but she waved me away. “I should be more cautious about opening the door—I should certainly know better by now. I’m just glad he’s gone. I’ll have breakfast up in a trice,” she stated firmly.  
  
It was only after Sherlock departed for his excursion—seeking information regarding the will of the women’s mother—that the second possibility—that of that dreadful man discovering us in a compromising situation—occurred to me, and I admit to being so shaken that I simply sat, staring into the fire, wondering at how we had managed to be so fortunate for remaining in secret for so long.  
  
It was on the train that Sherlock seemed to finally show that he was affected by our hideous encounter; he had given me just the slightest hint when he mentioned the possibility of Miss Stoner suffering repercussions from her discovery by her stepfather, but as we flew along the tracks, it obviously began to disturb him more and more. By the time we reached Leatherhead, he was sinking fast into one of those low moods which worry me so. If it overtook him entirely, he would be utterly useless for the investigation. I dreaded those situations much more than him simply refusing a case at the outset, for I would be forced into the role of detective myself, making all the enquiries and coercing him to at least pretend to be keen on the scent of something.  
  
So that brings me to us hiring the trap to drive us the four or five miles required to reach Stoke Moran. Well, I did the hiring, of course, while Sherlock stood passively behind me, staring rather intently at his own boots.  
  
He was so engrossed in his own thoughts that I had to give him a hand up into the trap. This startled him, and he gave me a piercing if fleet glare. I felt my face fall; he really did seem to be headed down one of those dark paths upon which he sometimes lost himself. But then it was my turn to be startled when he suddenly gave me the most affectionate, sweet, _loving_ smile—one which, even between intimate friends and associates, could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was.  
  
I settled him in the front of the trap, where he soon dropped his chin to his breast and buried himself in thought. The day was as perfect as I described, and even as I worried about my dear friend and his state of mind, I managed to enjoy the fresh air and early hints of spring. London is a bustling, progressive place to live, but sometimes the weight of humanity oppresses one, and it is pleasant to smell the moist earth and feel the sun on one’s face.  
  
It was also pleasant to recognise that that smile had been a silent request for strength and a silent offering of his love for me, and I had pressed my hand where it lay upon his arm in assurance.  
  
*  
  
I was relieved when he rallied himself upon catching sight of the old manor-house and encountering our client at the entrance to the foot-path. I believe that he was buoyed by our client’s coming out to meet us. She had proven to us that morning and again when she appeared that she was truly brave and eager to take an active role in understanding her situation. Indeed, as he climbed the stile, he seemed quite his usual energetic self, and he grinned a bit wickedly as he described how we had made the horrible man’s acquaintance.  
  
By the time we reached the lichen-blotched stone mansion, he was keen and focused in his assessment of the situation. As always, I enjoyed observing him as he threw himself to the floor and examined it and briskly tugged on the false bell-rope.  
  
He was reassuring in his assertion that we would take our client away to her aunt’s for her own safety. I agreed wholeheartedly with this plan, as I am sure her fiancée would—he clearly was unaware of the depth of the lady’s troubles, or she most assuredly would have been moved already.  
  
Our overnight adventure proceeded much as I described it, omitting, of course, some of the more personal details, including the way in which we occupied our time at the Crown Inn whilst awaiting Miss Stoner’s signal. We engaged a bed-room and sitting-room, as I have written, and it was exactly the sort of arrangement which we enjoyed. The sitting-room had two very nice, comfortable chairs, which I positioned by the window so we could watch the avenue gate. I looked over at Sherlock as Roylott shouted at the poor lad fumbling with the gates, and was alarmed at my darling’s expression, which had become haunted again.  
  
He suddenly sprang up and, walking swiftly to the door, locked it before lowering the lamp. By necessity we would now be sitting in the gathering darkness, so as to observe Miss Stoner’s window without being observed ourselves.  
  
He turned towards me and I spread my arms wide. He almost dove into my lap, immediately curling up with his head on my shoulder. I rubbed his back.  
  
We sat that way for a while, discussing his observations and deductions regarding the ventilator and false bell-rope. I was touched that he expressed his concern over my safety and gratified that I could assure him of my assistance—we were both positive that a terrible crime was on the verge of being committed. Finally, I could stand the anxiety in his voice no longer.  
  
“You were so very remarkable and brave this morning,” I told him, whispering against his temple. “I forget how strong you are sometimes. But what a horrible, abominable man. He has you so very disturbed, my love,” I commented. “I know that bullies of that nature are particularly abhorrent to you.”  
  
He nodded, and I revelled in the feel of his cheek against my own. As he so often is, he was cold, and I held him even more closely as he shivered. “It reminds me of my own father,” he admitted. “He was a bully, as you put it. Miss Stoner’s injuries are far too familiar to me. We must get her away from that odious creature.”  
  
“We will—this very night,” I professed. “As soon as we see the signal, we shall positively fly there, and I am certain that we will be in time to prevent some subtle and horrible crime.”  
  
“You have great faith in me,” he noted hesitantly. “I hope that I do not disappoint you.”  
  
“You never disappoint me, or anyone,” I told him with fervour.   
  
It was then that he begged to turn our minds to something more cheerful for a few hours, and it was then that I came up with something which seemed to fit the bill.  
  
As always, kissing him was a glorious thing, and I congratulated myself for having come up with a mutually pleasing activity.  
  
*  
  
Waiting in the blackness of that room; straining our ears to hear the peculiar whistle—and Sherlock instructing that I take the chair and him the bed—all of that I have faithfully recorded. I admit that I was momentarily disappointed by his instruction, wishing to be next to him, but swallowed my objections. As we were maintaining absolute silence, I could not have spoken anyway—but in fact in retrospect I was grateful for it, for, as I would learn later, Sherlock’s reason for this might have saved my life.  
  
The intensity and swiftness of his attack on what we thought was a serpent reminded me, for the second time in less than 24 hours, of how his slender frame belies his strength. He is breath-taking to watch when he is so energetic. I, of course, had not been merely sitting there gaping at him all that time, but the image of him striking the false bell-rope so furiously with his cane returned to me again and again in the weeks which followed.  
  
His decisive way of securing the viper (and in my original manuscript of this story, I correctly quoted the detective as naming the serpent a _Naja naja_ —the speckled cobra—apparently the editor thought that this foreign word would not strike sufficient fear and awe in the hearts of readers and so changed it to the ludicrously inaccurate “swamp adder”) in the doctor’s room thrilled me equally. It made me quite impatient as we awaited the county police (the housekeeper, who had of course been roused by Roylott’s dying scream, proved useful for at least this task). While we waited, we organised ourselves—we were friends of Miss Stoner and had been invited to visit. We had stayed up quite late talking (Miss Stoner had not, upon withdrawing to her usual bedroom, changed into nightclothes, so it already appeared as if she and Sherlock and I had been doing just that) when we had heard the agonised screams of her stepfather. As his penchant for exotic animals was well-known in the district, we did not anticipate a terribly rigorous interrogation from the police—the housekeeper, who had been a bit baffled by our appearance, had been silenced when Miss Stoner explained to her that we had arrived after she had retired.  
  
Sherlock also took advantage of this time to swiftly explain to Miss Stoner what had occurred—and it was then that he revealed that he had formed his suspicions about the imminent danger to anyone inhabiting that bed as soon as he had seen the dog-lash and the marks showing that Roylott stood on the chair.  
  
“I could not bear to put you in such jeopardy, Watson,” he told me whilst our client listened with her eyes wide. “That is why I insisted you remain in your chair—at what I judged to be a safe distance—whilst we awaited the serpent.”  
  
I was alarmed that he had put himself in such jeopardy, and Miss Stoner also voiced her distress at his foolhardy action, but he waved his pale white hand languidly, insisting that, as he was anticipating the attack, he had not been in any danger.  
  
My darling can be such an idiot at times.  
  
Finally, the police arrived and Sherlock explained the situation (well, our agreed-to version of it) to them, and I was relieved beyond words when, as the sun rose, we were able to make our escape from the nightmarish house. We took Miss Stoner, who had been admirably steady as she was interviewed, to the morning train and escorted her to her aunt’s. Miss Stoner and Sherlock and I sat and discussed gypsies and cheetahs and wills and weddings until we reached the station.  
  
We did not discuss vipers. Nor stepfathers.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock managed to maintain his show of resilience until we boarded the train for London. There, he finally allowed the façade to drop. He brought his feet up onto the seat, wrapped his arms around his knees, and, with his face hidden, rocked. There was little I could do in such a public setting other than pat his shoulder. I could not get us back to Baker Street quickly enough, and longed for the ability to fly.  
  
*  
  
Bully.  
  
That was the only word he spoke for the remainder of the day. I attempted a few times to engage him in conversation and offered him endless cups of tea, but he took no notice of my pleas. He had curled up on the floor in front of the fire, in a nest of cushions and rugs, and his only movement was to light one cigarette after another.  
  
It was only when I announced it was time to retire that he even acknowledged my presence. Then, slowly, he raised his face to mine where I stood before him. I reached out my hand to him, and he hesitantly took it. I pulled him up and extracted him from his nest. “Come to bed, my love,” I murmured. He nodded and allowed me to tug him to his bedroom.  
  
There, as I so often did, I assisted him in changing to his nightclothes before undressing myself. I got him to slide across the mattress, but was dismayed when instead of reclining, he sat stiffly against the headboard. Finally, I crawled under the bedclothes myself. “Lie down, darling,” I whispered. “I have been longing to hold you, if you will allow me.” He nodded and stiffly arranged himself on his pillow. “No,” I reprimanded, gently. “Come lie here in my arms. You seem cold. Can I warm you?”  
  
He rolled towards me then, and I was so very gratified to feel his slight weight as it pressed against me.  
  
“I am cold,” he admitted in a somewhat hoarse voice. “Even sitting by the fire did not warm me.”  
  
“My poor sweetheart,” I murmured, cradling him in my arms. “I am here, and we shall be quite cosy in our bed.”  
  
He sighed and nestled himself even closer to me.  
  
We remained that way for a while. Finally, it seemed the correct time. “My love,” I began, gently, “the odious behaviour of that vile man seems to have gotten you quite upset. You mentioned that he reminded you of your own father. Is that so?”  
  
“Yes,” he admitted, his breath puffing across my chest.  
  
“Do you wish to tell me in what way?” I prodded.  
  
“I will,” he sighed, “but once I tell you, can we please not discuss it further?”  
  
“Of course, my love,” I readily agreed—for that had been my desire from the first. I wanted him to share the burden of his memories with me, and then to distract him the best way I knew how from his dark thoughts.  
  
“It was a long time ago,” he began, and I tightened my embrace. “And even Mycroft does not know all—he was away at school for a great deal of it—although he deduced what had been occurring when he came home for the holidays.” I waited as he paused, gathering his resolve. “My father was an intelligent man, and he had enough self-control to not create any new marks when he knew my brother would soon be home.”  
  
I believe that I nearly injured him myself at that point, as my grip on him became even more intense. Still, he managed to continue.  
  
“I have told you that my father had, for as long as I can remember, expressed dismay at my… my birth.” I knew he was blushing—even after all those years, Sherlock found discussions regarding such matters upsetting. “And that he was probably not, in actuality, my father—in that sense.” That sentence came out all in a rush, as if he wished to get past it as quickly as possible.  
  
“You have,” I replied encouragingly.  
  
“And about the ill will which existed between my father and my mother due to... those circumstances.”  
  
“You have,” I agreed, aware of the extreme discomfort discussing these matters caused my love.  
  
“But I am afraid that I have not been entirely forthcoming as to the expression which my father’s resentment sometimes took.”  
  
“The sight of Miss Stoner’s injuries in particular seemed to distress you,” I remarked with some dread.  
  
“Father would often do that—grip my arm so hard that I would bear the marks for days. Sometimes it was my shoulder. If we had visitors, he would parade me in front of them, boasting about what an excellent scholar I was, and all the while he would be digging his fingers into my neck to ensure that I behaved.  
  
“Of course, I _was_ an excellent scholar. I was afraid not to be. He would whip me if I failed at my lessons—”  
  
My chest suddenly felt tight. I kissed the crown of dark curls. “I knew he was cruel in his words and attitude towards you, but why have you never shared with me that he was also so hard on you in this manner?”  
  
He did not reply except to make a slight, distressed sound.  
  
“Oh, I am sorry, my darling!” I ejaculated as I realised what I had just said. “How idiotic of me. Why would you wish to share such disturbing information?”  
  
“There’s more,” he said so quietly that even with my ear inches away from his lips, I barely caught his words.  
  
“More? You do not need to share any more if it distresses you so.” I felt a bit ill at having led the conversation down this path.  
  
“No… it is time you knew. You have been so forthcoming in sharing with me your travails when you were away at war, and even of your experiences with your own father and brother.” He seemed to lose his initiative, his voice dropping back to nothing.  
  
“I am sorry if that caused you any pain.”  
  
“No—indeed, it made me feel all that much closer to you, and now, sharing this information about myself makes me feel closer still.”  
  
“And I to you,” I confessed.  
  
He turned his head and pressed his lips to my chest.  
  
“So, you said there is more.” I did not particularly wish to hear more, but I was beginning to understand that there was a necessity to his confessions. He had borne this sorrow and terror on his own since boyhood. I could not allow him to bear it by himself for one more moment. “Please, my love, tell me so that I may try to take some of your pain away.”  
  
We sat in silence for a few moments. Finally, he spoke, and his voice sounded as if it was coming from a great distance.  
  
“He would whip me with a riding crop. He would trip me and leave the marks of his hands on my arms; my throat. He would have my food withheld—if anyone tried to bring me anything he would beat them as well.”  
  
I felt positively ill. “Good Lord, Sherlock,” I somehow managed; my throat tight. “What was he trying to do?” And then it occurred to me and the realisation left me gasping for breath. “Sherlock… Doctor Roylott’s abominable cruelty towards his daughters—stepdaughters—he plotted their _deaths_. He did—he _did_ kill Julia, in fact. Do you mean—God, Sherlock. Do you mean to tell me that your father…” I could not continue.  
  
“Perhaps not in quite such a deliberate manner, but yes, I believe that my father wished me dead.”  
  
I felt positively ill. I fervently kissed his head now, and moved my arms up and down his bony back to assure myself that he was whole and well. “Whatever can you mean?” I finally managed to gasp. “Surely you do not intend to imply that he tried to kill you.”  
  
“Not exactly, no. But… well, when I was perhaps five years old, I fell rather gravely ill. I do not recall the precise ailment, but I do remember thinking that the ceiling of my room was going to fall down and crush me—I could see giant cracks forming, or at least I thought I could.”  
  
“You were delirious.”  
  
“Yes, and I could not eat or drink for days. I recall touching my lips—they were so very dry that they felt like paper.”  
  
“That must have been frightening, especially for a small child.”  
  
“I was confused a great deal of the time. I did not have a nursemaid, but the housekeeper tended to me. She was frightened. She begged for my father to send for a doctor.”  
  
A chill ran through me as I realised what he was leading to. “He did not, I take it,” I offered.  
  
“He did not,” my darling agreed, “and when the housekeeper summoned one anyway, he would not allow him entrance.”  
  
“He turned him away?”  
  
“Yes. There was shouting. I got out of my bed to investigate, but I was so very ill that when I reached the head of the stairs, I tumbled down to the ground floor.”  
  
“What? Were you badly injured? What did the doctor do?” The outrage I felt still sometimes boils up within me even now.  
  
“He had been thrust out of the house and Father had locked the door already, and as much as anyone begged, he would not allow him admittance.”  
  
We lay there for a moment, silent.  
  
“Eventually someone gathered me up in their arms and brought me back up to bed. I do not remember anything after that, except that sometimes when I awoke from those horrible fever-dreams, the housekeeper was there by my bedside, and her face was… I did not quite understand it then, but now I realise that she had been weeping.”  
  
“Good God, Sherlock. Enough. I am heartily sorry to have pressed you to recall such horrible events.”  
  
“No. It is all right, John. It was a long time ago and that man cannot hurt me any longer.”  
  
“No, it is not all right. No child should bear such abuse. Did your mother intervene at all?”  
  
“Mother’s… illness, I believe, prevented her from attending to domestic issues.” What a chilling way to phrase it.  
  
“What about your brother? Despite your father’s precautions, I am certain that his powerful observational skills detected all.”  
  
“Please, can we not speak of it any longer?” He sounded exhausted. He _was_ exhausted.  
  
I was mortified at myself for having encouraged his recollections. “Of course,” I assured him. “No more tonight. Can you sleep, do you think?”  
  
He shook his head. “My mind is all a jumble of cheetahs and pokers and bed-ropes. I am so gratified that our client is safely removed from it all. May I tell you something, John?”  
  
“Of course.” What could he possibly have left to tell me?  
  
“When that viper… when we discovered that its venom had done its work on that horrible man—is it wicked of me to say that I was not just relieved, but glad of it?”  
  
I shifted him in my arms so I could see his face, and I kissed his high, white forehead. “No, my love,” I assured him. “For I felt exactly the same."


End file.
